Ange Gardien
by Emerald-Shadow-Knight
Summary: Death doesn't always mean the end. He may be dead, but he still has a job to do. Rated T for violence.
1. Prologue

Here's my attempt at writing something new. Yep, more France and Canada familial love and whatnot.

Disclaimer: Guess.

* * *

"Mathieu?" Francis whispered to the sleeping boy on the couch. Matthew simply turned over onto his side.

"Mmmmph..." Francis tried again, a little louder. When that didn't elicit a response, the Frenchman began shaking him.

"Mathieu! Wake up!" The Canadian was up immediately. He looked up at his papa, then at the rest of the room.

"Wha...? What happened, what time is it?"

"Don't worry, Mathieu. Nothing is wrong, _cheri_. I'm just going to the store, and I was wondering if you needed anything."

"Oh..." Matthew sat up and readjusted himself. "I don't know, maybe get some more maple syrup? I think we're out again."

Francis pulled out a shopping list and added "Maple Syrup" to the oddly small list. "All right. It's getting a bit late, but I'll be going now. Make sure you try to get some rest, all right?"

"_Oui_, Papa." The maple child laid back onto the couch, watching as Francis grabbed his things and left.

As soon as he left, the boy turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. It was, indeed, about six thirty in the evening. Francis insisted on walking to the store, and he was usually there a while. It would be dark before he got back.

Matthew snuggled into a blanket and settled on a random cartoon channel. He made a mental note to himself to leave a light on for Francis.

...

Too many brands of syrup. Francis couldn't for the life of him remember what brand it was Matthew usually got. It was the oddly shaped bottle, that much he knew for sure.

Problem was, all the bottles were oddly shaped to him. Francis simply grabbed the one he thought Matthew would like best, and went on with his shopping.

Even with shortcuts (and cutting out what he thought they didn't really need) Francis took a while. By the time he walked out of the store, it had already become nightfall.

The Frenchman looked around to see what time it was, but it was too dark to see any clocks. He could only go by what he could see, which wasn't much.

He, inevitably, ended up getting lost. Francis couldn't say for sure, but he seemed to end up in an alley. The darkness was overwhelming. The alley was also filthy and smelled of urine. The man was admittedly afraid. The silence was deafening, so in an attempt to make it easier, he began singing to himself.

_"Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,_ _Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?" _The song did little to calm his nerves. He could hear sirens in the distance, followed by the sound of footsteps behind him.

"Hm? Who's there?" Francis stopped singing, and turned around. "If there's someone there, I didn't realize this was your alley!" He heard a gun cocking, followed by an utterance of, "Bastard."

The shot fired, and the next thing Francis knew, he was laying on the ground, a bullet in his back. The gunman had disappeared.

Francis was all alone now, bleeding to death. The searing pain was bad enough, but now the Frenchman also could feel the vital liquid pooling around him. What little he could see was slowly disappearing into darkness.

By the time he was discovered, it had already become morning, and his body had grown completely cold.

...

Papa wasn't back yet. Matthew had been up all night, waiting for him. When he didn't return at the time expected, the boy grew worried.

"What's taking you, Papa?" The maple child decided to just wait it out and make breakfast. Before he could do so, however, there was a knock at the door. When he answered, there were two policemen he didn't recognize.

"Matthew Williams?" One said. Neither of them seemed fazed by the fact Matthew was dressed only in a bathrobe.

"Yes?" The words they told him next were probably some of the worst he'd ever heard.

"I regret to inform you that your father, Mister Francis Bonnefoy, has been killed."

* * *

To those who have been reading Iron Weakened by Rust, I will start the next chapter soon.

-Emerald-Shadow-Knight


	2. réveiller

An update to Iron Weakened by Rust will be up soon.

That's all I'm going to say, since I'm pretty sure people are tired of me putting up disclaimers.

* * *

Matthew would have given anything to be somewhere else right now. Anywhere would have been preferable to standing here, looking upon the cold, pale corpse of his beloved papa.

Francis looked oddly calm in that casket. His hands were folded over his chest. His eyes, shut forever, showed no signs of the immense pain he had no doubt felt in his last moments. The gunshot wound had thankfully been in his back, so the clothes were able to cover it up. The Frenchman looked so peaceful.

Of course, Matthew knew he was probably full of chemicals and sawdust. Were it not for the fact he was in a huge box, laid strangely, and wearing a formal suit, he'd have looked like he was just sleeping. Actually, scratch all that. Francis looked dead. If he were sleeping, he'd be naked and his limbs would be all akimbo.

Matthew watched him, fighting tears. He stood there, silently, not listening to the footsteps behind him.

"Hey. Matthew." The boy looked behind him to see his papa's friends, with Lovino standing off to the back. Gilbert looked upset, which looked tame compared to how Antonio was blubbering. "How you holding up?"

Matthew looked down, taking a deep breath before nodding. The Spaniard could only wrap his arms around Matthew, speaking in broken and almost unintelligible Spanish. Matthew picked up on some of the words over the years, so he could understand the words for, "Oh, my God," and, "He's in a better place now, little Matthew."

Gilbert gently pulled him away. Lovino took the sobbing man over to his side, him rolling his eyes the whole time. The albino simply opted to wrap one arm around Matthew, patting his back.

"It's going to be okay. We're here for you." Matthew nodded again, not really wanting to say anything about all this.

...

_**"Francis...Francis Bonnefoy..."**_Francis heard a voice calling him. It wasn't a voice he was familiar with, though. In fact, it didn't even sound like it was of this world.

"_Quoi?_ Where am I?" The Frenchman stood to his feet. The first thing he noticed was that the gunshot wound in his back didn't seem to be there. Well, that, and he seemed to be alive.

_**"Francis Bonnefoy...Your time has not yet come...There is still something for you to** **do..."**_

"Wh- Who are you? What are you talking about?" His questions went unanswered. Francis left this place almost as quickly as he arrived. The next time he opened his eyes, he was back in the alley he was killed.

"Now what's happening...?" Francis saw a hearse drive by. He thought of following it, but several other cars were trailing it. It wasn't every day he saw that many cars.

Knowing he probably wouldn't be noticed, the Frenchman began following them. The empty streets proved to be easy for him to go through. Of course, as he would later realize, that probably wouldn't have made much of a difference.

"Hey! Hey, what's going on?" The drivers didn't seem to hear him. He followed them all the way to the cemetery. Upon seeing an open grave, Francis stopped, and silently watched.

The people coming out of the cars were all friends, family, and acquaintances of him. Francis watched in shock as a long, yet plain coffin was taken out of the back of the hearse. Matthew, Antonio, Gilbert, and Arthur, for some reason, all carried said coffin to the open grave.

It then dawned on him. He was attending a funeral, and judging by the way his child and two close friends were involved...

The funeral was for him.

...

After everyone had left, Francis stayed, and was sitting in front of his own tombstone. The very fact that it was his own, along with just about everything else, was almost surreal.

What had that voice meant? He still had something to do? The Frenchman had no idea what it meant. Was it an assignment? It must have been. It was too bad he wasn't told what exactly it was.

Knowing he didn't have anywhere else to go, Francis stood up, and quietly began walking to the only place he could think of being.

His house.

* * *

I'm still trying to work out the kinks in this story, but then again, that seems to happen with all the stories I write.

-Emerald-Shadow-Knight


	3. vérifier

I better keep writing this. No sense in writing one story, but neglecting another.

Disclaimer: Guess.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Francis reached his house. The lights on indicated that Matthew hadn't gone to sleep yet. Slowly, he walked, or rather floated, up the steps. He could hear the TV on inside.

He couldn't help but wonder what he would have been doing right now, with his child. Maybe he'd be making pancakes or crepes for the two of them, or putting on a bad movie. Either option would be better than what happened.

Francis tried opening the door, but his hand went right through the doorknob. He put two and two together, and walked right through. Sure enough, the television was blaring, with the Canadian inside watching.

Matthew was a wreck. There was a trash can in front of him, full of tissues. The boy was blowing his nose with one right now, tears running down his face. Francis could see an empty bowl of poutine and a half-drunk bottle of Yukon Jack on the stand next to him. Poor kid was trying to eat and drink away the pain.

The movie Matthew was watching, Francis never quite got. All he got out of it was two guys trying to get free beer and discovering a world domination plot. After that, the Frenchman couldn't understand any of it.

But it was one of Matthew's movies, and regardless of whether he could figure it out or not, Francis still watched it with him. It was a sort of bonding experience between them.

Quietly, Francis floated over and took a seat. He watched his child shudder into the blankets. The movie ended, and at that point, Matthew changed it to some Canadian cartoon. He didn't get much time to watch it before the phone rang.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Gilbert. No, I can talk, It's not time for me to go to sleep yet..." The Frenchman listened. Gilbert normally didn't call only Matthew. Of course, that might have been because Francis was dead, and the albino was calling to check up.

...

"So how you holding up? I know it seems early, but hey, it's okay to let your feelings out once in a while." Gilbert sat on his mattress in the basement, with the blanket covering him up to his waist. Matthew talked about anything that was on his mind.

"Yeah, I know. This whole thing's taking all the awesome out for me. Still, hearing how you say how bad you're feeling, well..." Gilbert paused, trying to think of the best way to say it, "Antonio's still a blubbering mess. Yeah, he smashed an entire crate of tomatoes against the wall earlier."

"But hey, if you need anything..." The albino was interrupted by a loud stomping noise, followed by an irate shout.

"_**Gilbert! Lights out vas ten minutes ago! Go to sleep!**" _

He looked up at the ceiling and responded back. "_Ja, ja_, I'll go to bed shortly!" He went back to his conversation. "Like I was saying, Mattie, you need anything, give me a call. _Ja_, don't worry. We'll get through this. _Gute nacht_, Matt."

After he hung up, Gilbert turned the light off and pulled the blankets over his head. He could hear Gilbird quietly chirping in his cage across the room. Judging by how silent the house was upstairs, Ludwig was probably in bed now, too.

One of these days, he was going to have to pay Matthew a visit. Losing a loved one was never easy. It didn't mean someone had to go through it alone.

Slowly, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and he eventually fell asleep.

...

Was Lovino really going to have to listen to this all night? Antonio's inelegant blubbering was really putting him off his appetite. It was all right, though. The Italian wasn't really hungry for grilled salmon steak, anyway.

Lovino set his plate down and pushed it away. He didn't care if it would go to waste, or if it got nasty. He'd clean it up later. The Italian held a pair of couch pillows over his ears, which did little to solve the problem. The Spaniard seemed inconsolable.

He lay there, waiting until the cries subsided somewhat. After it seemed safe, Lovino got up and walked to his room, grumbling the whole way.

Yes, death was sad, and yes, Francis and Antonio were close. Still, the way the Spanish man was going on was a bit much. His crying was enough to make a person deaf.

At least it wasn't his younger brother, and him talking about how they "never slept together" anymore, or anything else he would incessantly yap about.

When Lovino reached his bed, the crying started up again. Thankfully, it wasn't as audible from here. With a little effort, he was out like a light.

...

Francis quietly watched as Matthew slept away. The sight of the boy curled up amongst the blankets and pillows was saddening. He wanted to say something, anything, to show he was here.

He looked around the room. There were numerous stuffed bears and other animals from when the maple child was little. Francis opted to try to pick one up. To his surprise, it lifted up with his hand.

He wasn't sure how he could pick it up, when he couldn't handle the damn doorknob earlier. Shrugging it off, Francis went back over, and set the bear next to Matthew.

The boy seemed to realize something was different, but he was probably to out of it to care. He took the bear into his arms, and held it close. Now, Matthew seemed oddly content.

Seeing nothing else to do, Francis kept watch over him for the rest of the night.

* * *

Still working on Iron Weakened by Rust, don't worry. That one should be updated as soon as I know what I'm going to do.

-Emerald-Shadow-Knight


End file.
